


A Little, Too Little, Too Late

by FactorialRabbits



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Miriel hangs over every bit of conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: Fëanor asks for his mother, in life and in death. Each time, an answer is received.





	A Little, Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkien Secret Santa Gift for aruthla on tumblr. Hope you have wonderful holidays, and everyone else reading this too.

Fëanáro is late. Námo taps his foot, lurking near his doors to his Halls. Every year at precisely this time the First Prince of the Noldor appears to demand his attention. That is just a fact of reality. It is infuriating, an annoyance and inconvenience to his life.

It is also greatly looked forward to.

That comes as more of a surprise to some than it should, Námo thinks; of course ruling the Halls is difficult, often lonely business. Fëanáro’s visits break the monotony, giving some indication of the passage of time.

Eventually, one of his Maiar flitters up to him. She does not speak, but she communicates all the same - Fëanáro is here.

In three long strides, Námo reaches the door. He pulls his face from the image of concern to one of slight irritation. But, finally, Fëanáro is here to ask for his mother, and everything is once again right with the world.

“I have told you before,” his voice booms around the Halls, startling the fëa around him. “It is impossible for you to see your mother.”

Fëanáro stands with his legs apart and arms folded over his chest. Námo cannot help but remember the first time he came to make demands, barely old enough to ride so far alone. Now he is grown, a father of seven adult sons, but his expression and posture is identical. Námo quirks a smile, infuriating the elf; no matter what happens, these visits are comfortingly predictable.

He would miss them once they were gone.

“Why? Does she not wish to see me, or are you forcing us apart?” Fëanáro scowls the words; Námo cannot help but have something akin to sympathy for them. The situation is delicate, and sometimes he wishes his hands were not tied.

“The dead cannot walk among the living, and the living cannot walk among the dead,” Námo speaks the same words every year, in the same tone. Bored and distant and cold; the living should not walk the halls of the dead. However much sympathy he has for them.

“Says who?”

“It is the will of Eru, and his commands I follow.”

“Prove it.”

“How do you expect me to prove the will of Eru?” the exasperation is true, at least; every year it is the same, and every year it comes down to this. “The will of Eru is written into the very essence of what I am, how could I then express it to you in terms you would understand?”

“Show me,” Fëanáro demands.

Námo hesitates; this is new, an untrodden suggestion. One that may even work. After a long few moments of consideration, he drops his fana and presses against Fëanáro’s fea. He burns brightly. Námo cannot help but think of a candle lit at both ends - the light is beautiful, but will burn out disturbingly soon.

They do not stay merged for very long, but Námo knows Fëanáro sees more than he offered to show. Still, he has his answer, and Námo has learnt a few things about the Children in return. When he withdraws and remanifests, there is a contemplative expression on Fëanáro’s face.

“Do you have further questions?” Námo watches Fëanáro closely.

“No.”

The answer is short, the elf restructuring his face into a cold and angered expression. He turns on his heel, and storms out. The doors slam behind him, the sound echoing around the chamber. The anger seems false; Námo moves to the great window over the door, and watches Fëanáro ride away. But, there are duties he should be attending to, and things that must be done.

As turns and leaves, Námo is uncomfortably aware that this is the last time he will see Fëanáro alive.

He knows not precisely where the knowledge comes from, but it sits in his mind and does not leave. He can only hope it means Fëanáro shall not return.

* * *

In the scales of time Námo comprehends, it is not so long before Fëanáro returns to Mandos. The very air around his fëa seems alight with the consuming fire, the others fleeing before it. Even Námo himself steps back a little - the presence of Fëanáro is angry, and it burns even against the Valar. Still, this has been foreseen, and an angry fëa is still a fëa.

He gestures for his Maiar to chase after and look after the others in his realm, and cautiously approaches. They are still not close enough to touch when the argument begins.

“I will see my mother now,” Fëanáro eventually says, when he is a little calmer and his flames faded.

“I have told you before; it is impossible for you to see your mother,” Námo’s voice remains as heartless as he can keep it, but the sorrow he feels for them seems to rip him apart.

Fëanáro’s thunderous expression as he freezes and stutters out why makes it worse.

Because fëa in the Halls should be solitary and reflect on their lives, because you are a criminal and are to be punished, because you have destroyed so much of yourself in your oath and vengeance.

The answers that Fëanáro expects are obvious, yet all of them are false. Námo frowns, looking down at his charge with a frown.

“Because your mother is no longer dead, tiny one. And you will be for the rest of time.”

He watches Fëanáro be torn almost in two - split between fury and elation. Námo gives a sigh and clamps an arm around the fea. He is immediately bitten with burning teeth, scorched with flaming claws, but does not let go. Instead, he simply ignores the pain and leads him somewhere private.

Fëanáro shall be within the Halls until the end of time; this had always been inevitable, but had never been desired. He would sit with the Child until he was ready for sensible discussion. And then, they would find some way to make this eternity as non traumatic for them both as possible.


End file.
